


It's Too Much

by lostintranslaation



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Michelle Jones Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:13:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26788774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostintranslaation/pseuds/lostintranslaation
Summary: Only when she walks over to her side of the bed and looks out at the city, lit up in the night does it hit her.Peter could have died tonight.If it weren’t for her, he would have died tonight.He would have died protecting this city, cool and uncaring and ungrateful.Or,The one where Michelle realizes how difficult and how important her role in Peter's life really is.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	It's Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of [this beautiful art](https://pellisoro.tumblr.com/post/625657692127739904/its-too-much-22-part-1) on tumblr by [pellisoro](https://pellisoro.tumblr.com/)!

Michelle’s phone lights up with Peter’s photo and she swipes up and sets her laptop on the couch cushion beside her. She mutes the TV, newscaster droning on about a cold front moving in over the weekend.

“Hey Parker,” she stands and paces the room, stopping by the window. “How’s patrol?”

_“Oh, you know,”_ he replies, _“It’s been a slow night. You still working on your art history paper?”_

She sighs, “Yeah. I’m mostly finished. Probably just throw in another paragraph and a conclusion and submit it. Then I’ll be done. Completely. With the class, too.”

_“It’s on realism, right?”_

“Uh-huh.” The glass of the windowpane chills her through her sweater.

_“Well hey,”_ he says, _“Why don’t you finish that up soon and I’ll stop by the store on the way back to bring back some ice cream and then we can watch a movie to celebrate you finishing the last paper you’ll ever have to write?”_

She smiles. “That sounds good. See you soon.”

_“See you soon. I love you!”_

“Love you too.” She hangs up. 

She pockets her phone and resumes her spot on the couch, laptop balanced in her lap, hands resting on the keyboard, willing words to flow from her fingertips. 

Michelle leans back on the couch and her bare feet squeak against the polished wood of the coffee table in front of her. 

_The beginning of the realism movement was marked by two major events at the time, Charles Darwin’s 1838 voyage and the decline of fundamentalism, as well as the 1848 French Revolution and the decline of romanticism. Between these two events, many artists at the time felt the need to portray events exactly as they happened so that no important event would go unnoticed._

Twenty minutes pass in the blink of an eye Michelle straightens her back out and looks up at the TV. A familiar red-and-blue spandex blur passes the camera and the banner reads _‘Spider-Man Protects City from Rhino’_

Her stomach flips as Peter barely dodges a swipe from the sharp horns and she hates that this is happening. She hates that Peter puts his life on the line for people who wouldn’t do the same. She hates that he jumps in without a second thought every time. She hates that he feels it’s his job to put his life in danger constantly. She hates that she’s at home worrying for him. She hates it.

She reaches for the remote on the coffee table blindly, eyes glued to the screen. She unmutes the TV and the newscaster’s voice fills the room. 

“The man, who calls himself Rhino, emerged late Friday night from a subway station closed for maintenance and began to wreak havoc on the city until Spider-Man showed up moments later.”

The camera follows Peter as he slings a web to Rhino’s hoof and he trips and falls face-forward. Peter stumbles backwards and trips over debris, hitting his head as he falls. 

The camera pans to Rhino and Michelle wishes it hadn’t. He tears through the webbing and charges Peter again before a giant metal cage locks down on top of him. 

Michelle’s lungs are burning for air but she can’t manage to suck in a breath. 

The camera starts to pan back over to Peter but the feed cuts off and it goes back to the newscaster. 

Michelle lurches. 

The newscaster goes on, thanking the masked hero, the protector of the city, but all Michelle could think of was how Peter looked when the camera last showed him, bruised and bloodied and confused. 

It’s jarring. She’s an art curator during an earthquake, watching priceless pieces of art fall to the ground, frames cracked, canvases torn.

She picks up her phone to call Peter, but there’s no answer. She calls again. No answer. She paces and wrings her hands but it does nothing. It’s a waiting game she wishes she didn’t have to play. 

Ten minutes pass and her stomach is tangled in knots so big she can’t breathe. A tap on the window makes her jump. She rushes to push it open and grabs Peter’s arm to help him through the window before he can collapse. She doesn’t think about how he almost slipped from her grasp.

“MJ,” he breathes. The pallor of his cheeks contrasts sharply with the blood dripping from his temple. Brush strokes, barely visible from a distance, revealing themselves as she gets closer, layers of the life they’ve built together. “I… I’m sorry,”

“Peter! Are you— I mean you’re not not okay but—” he clutches at her shoulders as she lowers him to the ground. “It’s okay. You’re going to— it’s—“ her hands shake and her heart hammers in her chest and everything is so real and so clear but at the same time, none of this can be real. There’s no way this is real because Peter Parker, Spider-Man, is _bleeding out_ on her carpet minutes after she finished her last final. 

“No, really, I’m sorry.” Michelle leans her weight on the wound in his side and he sucks in a pained breath through clenched teeth. “I forgot your ice cream.”

A moment of stunned silence passes before a hysterical laugh spouts up from Michelle’s throat. Did he really just apologize for forgetting her ice cream? While her hands are sticky with his blood? “Peter!”

He huffs a breathy laugh and drops his head back. “Oh Em. I shoulda ignored the police scanner.”

“Yeah, you really should have.” Her mind races to the first-aid lessons May had given her before they moved in together. Just in case, she had said. Michelle never expected the day they would be necessary would come. 

First-aid kit. There’s a first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet. 

“Do you think you can walk?” She slips an arm under Peter’s arms and he braces himself against the wall. “One… two…” Peter grunts as Michelle pulls him upward. He leans against her and his blood is warm and soaks through her jeans. “Three.”

They hobble to the bathroom, feet slippery on the linoleum. She takes another breath and picks up the broken pieces of art needing repair. 

He makes it to the edge of the bathtub before collapsing on the rug. His temple drips red onto the edge of the tub and his hand paints the wall with it. 

She opens the cabinet under the sink and feels around in the dark for the first aid kit. Her hands leave streaks, too. 

She presses the spider emblem on his chest and he winces as the fabric pulls against his wounds. 

“Oh Peter,” her stomach turns. It’s bad. Worse than she imagined it would be. 

“I know, Em,” he says through gritted teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” Michelle’s voice is hushed, a whisper. Any quick movements could damage the painting more than it already was. 

She pulls off her sweater and presses it to his side. He grunts in response and shifts to compensate. 

Once the bleeding has slowed a little, she eyes the antibacterial wipes and tears open the packaging. “So,” she pulls her hoodie away from his side and he sucks in a tight breath. The wipe is cool in her hands. “What do you think we should do this weekend?” Her voice wavers at the end, the question mark deformed by anxiety, giving her away.

He looks over at the wipe in her hand with weary eyes. “Just do it. It’s okay.”

She takes a steadying breath. Peter braces against the wall and nods. 

The first go-over is the worst. Peter’s whole body tenses and a pained whine scrapes up his throat and Michelle’s stomach twists. She goes on and doesn’t look over at the tears she knew would be trailing down the dried blood on his cheeks. 

The next step is a little more complicated. 

The pre-threaded needle stares up at her from inside its packaging, a challenge. Michelle accepts. The slick plastic slips in her grip and she tears it open with her teeth. It leaves a metallic taste lingering on her tongue. 

The needle hovers over Peter’s skin, daring Michelle to take the plunge. 

Just like May taught. In and out, circle around. 

She remembers when she’d learned how to embroider, sloppy daisies and loose roses blossoming on the loom until her fingers cramped. This didn’t quite feel the same. 

“Ready?” Her voice is higher than it usually is. It echoes off the bathtub and mocks her cowardice. He nods again. 

The needle goes in easier than she expects it too and Peter groans. “You know what?” She jumps at his voice and a tear slips down her cheek quietly. “I think it would be a good weekend to stay in,” Peter says, words mumbled through gritted teeth. 

“Oh,” Michelle wipes her cheek with the back of her wrist and her hands are shaking. She takes another breath and continues stitching. “Mmhmm. Staying in sounds perfect.”

“Maybe… watch Brooklyn Nine-Nine or something like that.” She hums. She pulls another stitch closed and he groans again.

“Almost there… done.” She hastily pulls the last suture closed and she feels him relax. “The worst part’s over. You’re doing great.”

She wipes up the rest of the blood and tapes gauze tight against his side. His healing factor has already begun to close the wound. Her heart pounds and she tries to steady her hands before she moves on to his head. “How’re you doing Peter?” she whispers and his shoulders droop a little and he leans into her. 

“‘m alright. A little tired.”

“Well you’ve had a big day,” she uses another cleansing wipe on his forehead but the blood is caked and dried into his hair and there’s no way it’s coming out with just the wipe. He’ll just need a full shower when he can. 

She wraps the gauze around his head gently and tucks the loose end in on itself. Peter’s eyes droop closed and she props him up against the tub to grab some clean sweats from their room. It feels like she’s on autopilot, limbs moving with a purpose, never stopping to think about what they’re doing. A calculating machine programmed for a specific purpose. 

She peels the rest of Peter’s suit off and helps him into the pair of sweatpants she brought for him. Lacing an arm under his, she helps him over to the couch. 

“Are you hungry at all?” She tucks a throw pillow under his head.

“Not really. Just tired.”  
  
Concern draws her eyebrows together. “You’re always hungry.” He shrugs. “I’m going to warm you up some soup anyways, okay? It’ll be good for you.” She drops a kiss onto the only inch of real estate on his forehead that isn’t covered by gauze. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait,” he reaches for her hand as she turns away. “Thank you, Em. I mean it.” His eyes are sincere and very dilated. Concussion. 

“It’s no problem.” She squeezes his hand and heads toward the kitchen. 

There’s soup in the fridge from a couple of days ago when they had May over for dinner. Michelle pulls it out and sets the bowl on the counter. The liquid sloshes out onto the countertop when she sets it down and she realizes just how badly she’s shaking. She’s tense, like a pencil that’s about to snap. 

But she doesn’t let herself break quite yet, ignores the tension for just a little while longer.

She pulls out a bowl from the cabinet and warms the soup up in a pot over the stove. 

She mops up the bathroom, clearing the toilet and bathtub and tile floors and walls and cabinet doors of Peter’s blood until nobody would be able to tell that the grizzly scene that was just set in the bathroom of their Queens apartment had ever happened at all. 

She changes clothes and tosses them into the laundry machine along with Peter’s suit. 

She scrapes the blood from under her fingernails and scrubs her skin with a wet rag until she’s only imagining the blood there. 

She turns off the stove and pours the steaming chicken noodle soup into a mug and helps Peter raise it to his lips to sip. 

And when he’s finished most of the broth, she pours the rest of it down the sink, and sets the mug down to be washed. 

She helps Peter into bed and tucks him under the covers. He’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow, breath coming in sharp puffs through his parted lips. 

Only when she walks over to her side of the bed and looks out at the city, lit up in the night does it hit her.

Peter could have died tonight. 

If it weren’t for her, he would have died tonight. 

He would have died protecting this city, cool and uncaring and ungrateful.

Her knees go weak and she collapses onto the bed, head in her hands, breathing ragged and shallow, and lets herself break for a minute.

But when that minute passes, she wipes her tears, takes a deep breath, and moves on. Because as hard as it is, the city needs her to be strong. The city’s protector needs her. Needs her to be strong. 

Michelle has always prided herself in being able to see the art woven in the fabric of reality. So she knows that the face she paints on, the calmness she projects is art in and of itself. Because she’s an artist. 

And because she’s an artist, the intricate painting of the life she and Peter have built still stands, a portrait of a perfect facade with a multitude of tiny imperfections that are invisible to the untrained eye. A life, shattered and repaired time and time again until the beauty is in the brokenness. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you thought in a comment or come chat with me on [tumblr](https://lostintranslaation.tumblr.com/)!


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